


Hinc et Inde

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [6]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Jorah Mormont Lives, Mild Angst, Mild Sexual Content, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26442076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] There had been varying reactions to the revelation that Daenerys Stormborn is bedding her lord commander.
Relationships: Grey Worm & Jorah Mormont, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei & Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541743
Comments: 13
Kudos: 40
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Fall 2020





	Hinc et Inde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToasTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/gifts).



> Hello, ToasTea, your suuuuuuuuper secret gifter hopes you enjoy this humble attempt at fulfilling your prompts. Sorry if it sucks, I did my best and I enjoyed the challenges you set me!
> 
> Incorporates the following:
> 
> #2, Dany and Missandei friendship (feat. Missandei being a Jorah admirerer). <3 <3  
> #3 Jorah and Grey Worm bromance (feat. protective!Grey Worm). <3 <3
> 
> Bonuses:  
> Jorah's greyscale scars mentioned in passing;  
> Maybe not cuddles but certainly hugs;  
> Hand holding;  
> Walks down the beach
> 
> You are an awesome piece of toast and it was a privilege creating something for you. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

As queen of six kingdoms, long, draining days are to be expected. Relished, even. Daenerys _does_ relish them, for they inject her with a sense of purpose, invigorate her with the list of things she has to oversee. Others might crumble in the face of such hard work, but not she. She’s always known that it would be tough, drudging through the swill of centuries past. That has never bothered her. Changing the world is what she came here to do.

It helps that she has a band of determined advisors around her who all share her vision. Some are here out of love and respect, others are here for redemption, others still want to serve the realm. All of them dedicated to the cause.

It has its drawbacks, of course. The long hours, which sometimes drag on until the hour of the owl, when the candles are sputtering in their dying stages, the long shadows dancing and twining on the roughhewn walls like lovers of old. Some mornings she has had to drag herself out of bed to start again.

Over the last few weeks the reluctance to drag herself out of bed has been for another reason entirely.

A soft knock on the door distracts her from her pleasant thoughts.

“Come in,” she calls. She makes to stand as Missandei pokes her head around the door. Daenerys relaxed at once.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” the slight Naathian asks.

“Not at all. Please, come in.”

Missandei slips inside. Daenerys sees the balls of wool in her hands. Noticing where her gaze has gone, Missandei holds them up.

“I thought you might like a little distraction,” she says.

Daenerys does her best to clamp down her smile. Usually Missandei can be applauded for her tact, but this? There’s nothing subtle about it.

Crossing the room, Missandei moves to take the seat opposite her at the fine ornate table. It’s one of the many items that still needs to be replaced. Those extravagant lion carvings have no place here.

“We haven’t done this in a while,” Missandei comments as she loops her wool through her needles.

Daenerys moves over to her desk to retrieve her own. It’s lain there abandoned for weeks now. “We’ve been too busy.”

She doesn’t need to turn to know that Missandei is smirking; she can _feel_ its heavy imprint over her spine. “Yes, busy in many different ways…”

The queenly thing to do is to ignore the gentle jest, but the hour grows late and she’s here with only one of the few people she truly considers a friend. They have been through so much together over the years, she and Missandei, and her translator is the only person who has been fully able to understand her on a womanly level. It’s something she has clung to in trying times.

So she offers a quirked eyebrow as she returns to the table with her own sorry tangle of wool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you sure about that, Your Grace?”

Missandei isn’t usually so bold as to mock her. Though they are close, it seems that the other woman can never quite shake the notion that she is not on the same level. Daenerys wishes she would. She doesn’t want her friends to see themselves as below her. When the crown is removed, she is the same as anyone else, a young woman with hopes and dreams.

“Missandei, _please_ don’t use the titles when we’re alone.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s a hard habit to break, that’s all.”

“But you are my friend when we’re here together like this, not my advisor. You don’t have to censor yourself.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Missandei shifts in her chair, suddenly mischievous. “ _If_ you start talking.”

“Honestly, everyone is making such a fuss,” Daenerys grumbles.

“Others for different reasons, perhaps. Lord Varys will recover eventually.”

“Just as long as it’s not with scheming.”

“I don’t think he will. He trusts you.”

“Perhaps not in this.”

“Apparently he’s not seen a great deal to be excited about during his time serving the realm. It’s bound to have an effect.”

“I suppose I’ll need to spend all of tomorrow seeking his forgiveness.”

“Probably.” Missandei giggles. “But the look on his face was worth it.”

Daenerys snorts. “Perhaps for you. _I_ felt like a naughty child.”

“That’s not the sort of thing children get reprimanded for,” Missandei says slyly.

Daenerys pretends to be shocked. “I think you’ve been spending too much time around Tyrion.”

“Not so. I have Grey Worm, remember.”

“Ah, yes. I’m not likely to forget _that_.” Daenerys gives her a sideways glance, and Missandei blushes. The Naathian busies herself with her wool, and for a few minutes silence reigns. Daenerys picks up her own needles, finally ready to begin.

It’s not a pastime she’d evet seen herself with. Usually it’s something associated with old women sitting by the fire wrapped in rags and young girls who are drilled to perfect the art to find a suitable husband. It’s not an activity for queens.

But Missandei had brought it to her one eve on their return to Westeros, when she has been bone-tired and despondent, wondering if she should have ever have returned to these strange shores at all.

“I thought you might like this,” she said. “I know a queen wouldn’t be expected to do it, but my mother taught me before I was stolen from Naath and I always found it to be a soothing exercise. I haven’t had the chance to practice for many, many years. I wanted to try to rediscover it now and I thought you might want to learn too, to see if you like it.”

She’d never had someone to share in something so simple before. Jorah had been her port in stormy waters when she married Khal Drogo, and had been her most staunch supporter in the time that followed, but he was not a woman, and did not always understand her feelings and motivations. Irri and Jhiqui had tried, but they had been too different. She had longed for a female friend who would _understand_.

And then she’d met Missandei.

Missandei had taught her how to wind the wool, how to move the needles, how to count the stitches, her hands soft and sure, her patience unwavering. She had also provided a sound shoulder to cry on, well weighted advise, and a kind understanding of the trials she faces.

Daenerys likes to think she provides the same in kind for her friend. Apart from where knitting is concerned.

She’s _terrible_ at it. Countless stitches have been missed; she can’t even make out what she was supposed to be making. She’d picked a blue wool, liking its shade, never giving any other thought why. The sad little bobbled travesty should be a scarf, shaped to be worn in the frigid winter weather.

It was only later, with hindsight, that she knows what her hands had been unconsciously forming.

Something for Jorah. A talisman. A splash of colour in his otherwise drab ensemble. She’d been so used to his yellow shirt and the blue neckerchief affixed to his collar. A colour similar to the blue of his eyes, though in truth nothing could match that, pale as ice.

A reminder of the past, for that blue scrap of material is long gone.

Missandei had pretended not to notice, though surely she must have.

Her own hands have compelled her to weave a tapestry for the man she loves. A blanket to keep him warm, she’d said, shy and bashful, in the warm colours of Naath that she remembers. Dany has no doubt that Grey Worm will treasure it like other men might a crown.

They sit in silence now, two old friends concentrating on their own endeavours. The fire hisses and crackles in the grate, its warmth washing over them. Daenerys almost thinks that their conversation might be over.

Not so. After a few minutes Missandei settles back, issuing her a sidelong look.

“So…” she says, dragging out the word.

“So what?” says Daenerys, keeping her eyes studiously on her work.

Missandei tuts. “What else do I need to know about you and Ser Jorah?”

“I don’t know,” Dany says coyly. “I thought I gave enough details in the meeting.”

“Perhaps for the rest of your council. Not for me. How did this start!?”

Daenerys casts her gaze about, ensuring that the door is closed. “It feels like it was inevitable. Does that make sense?”

“I think so.”

“It was…after the Long Night. I didn’t realise right then that I loved him but it opened my eyes to what I’d had with me all along, and that was great loyalty and friendship, and that no matter what _he_ never abandoned me. I suppose it grew from there.”

It’s hard to articulate, even to her friend. Those feelings that had swirled around inside her, tumultuous and tempestuous, growing fiercer by the day. That warm affection right in the centre of her heart that never abated, only grew when she laid eyes on him. The long, difficult road from Winterfell to King’s Landing had only brought them closer, closer than they had ever been.

And she had finally seen the truth of it as she had taken the city back from Cersei Lannister. When he had fought in her name and she had been filled with the terror that this time he could not cheat death. That the Stranger would come to lay claim to him.

So there it had been right in front of her, a truth she could no longer deny or escape from.

A truth she was tired of fighting.

How different things have been since then.

How _happy_ she’s been since then.

“And...” Missandei continues, breaking her from her thoughts, “…How did it…?” She waggles her eyebrows.

Daenerys tries to be stoic, but she can’t keep the charade up for long. It’s impossible to. She’s too _content_. And there’s something so simply _normal_ about sharing simple gossip with her friend. “I kissed him in the council room. It escalated from there.”

Missandei sets down her needles, grinning broadly. “Ser Jorah must have been over the moon. He’s wanted to kiss you for a very long time.”

“How do you know that!?”

“I think it was the worst kept secret in your ranks, Your Grace,” says Missandei, perhaps softening her impertinence with the use of her title. “In Essos some people did wonder if you might...” Here she does trail off.

“If I might what?” Daenerys prods.

“If you might one day look upon him the same way yourself,” she says quietly.

“Who was saying that?” Daenerys says, perhaps more sharply than she should. But she can’t help it: it _stings_ that people whispered so behind her back. Perhaps judged her, perhaps thought her conceited or blind.

Missandei keeps her mouth shut. Above all she is loyal and won’t betray a confidence. And she shouldn’t get so defensive. People have the right to question her. She’ll be facing questions and disagreements for the rest of her life.

“I suppose I _was_ blind,” she concedes. “And afraid.”

“Of what?” Missandei prompts gently.

“Of opening myself up. Of allowing myself to feel those things. He’s always meant a great deal to me, regardless of whether that was in a more intimate manner or not. The thought of opening my heart and losing him…I didn’t think I could survive it. I needed to keep my heart protected. And in the end, none of that mattered. I still almost lost him. And it didn’t hurt any less than it would have done if he were a lover. And in the time that followed I began to have the realisations.”

The realisation that no matter what she convinced herself his role in her life was, it would never be easy to lose him. The realisation that it wasn’t that she _hadn’t_ loved him or _didn’t_ love that had been there between them all these years, but more that she’d felt she _couldn’t_ love him, because she was a queen, because he was only a knight, because she couldn’t have a weakness.

None of it had mattered. Because at the end of it all he _was_ her weakness and she had grown so tired of fighting against those tides. Dragons had been born to soar free, not to be manacled. Those chains had been of her own making, but she was learning to strain against them, push the boundaries, struggle towards freedom.

She remembers how they had fought their way to the Red Keep together. The chaos and the confusion, the only certainty his presence by her side and the knowledge that he would never let anything happen to her. When, bloodied but triumphant, he had lain the golden lion banner at her feet and knelt before her, he had been the first to declare, “Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name.” His voice had been hoarse with emotion. “Long may she reign.”

She had wanted to do nothing more than join him there and kiss him.

“I’m glad for you both,” Missandei says. “Ser Jorah is the best of men. He’s always been so kind to me, and to Grey Worm too. I’ve always found it…difficult to be around men, but Ser Jorah was different. That first day, when you freed us all from Kraznys Mo Nakloz, his first instinct was to protect me. No one had ever done that before. And of course I expected there might be an ulterior motive, but there never was. I knew little of Westeros but he was a truer knight than any I had ever heard of before.”

“He’s always been a truer knight than anyone has ever given him credit for, including himself.”

“And that helped you steer yourself in the right direction?” Missandei teases. “The gallant knight and the perfect queen sounds like a song for the ages.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it was something else.”

“Such as?”

Daenerys shoots her friend a devilish smirk. “Well, I saw that he was very nicely built.”

Missandei has a lover of her own; she isn’t naive. Her eyes widen. “You saw him naked? _When_?”

Daenerys waves her hand airily. “A while ago now. And I didn’t see _all_ of him. He was in the water.”

Missandei ogles at her as if she’s grown another head. Then, evidently deciding not to pry too far into the circumstances surrounding that, she changes tact for the evidently more interesting matter. “So he’s nice then?”

Despite the vagueness, Daenerys knows what she’s inferring. Smirking, she says, “Won’t Grey Worm be jealous?”

“I love Grey Worm,” Missandei shrugs. “I would never, ever betray him. But there are many people who find Ser Jorah pleasing. He’s very soulful.”

Yes, no doubt there are many women who think so. It’s in the depths of his eyes and the beautifully expressive lines of his face. But she has the jealous entitlement of a dragon and she has no intention of sharing him with anyone. Still, there’s no harm in sharing a few select details.

“He’s got nice muscles,” she says. “And he’s very athletic, you know.”

“Always a bonus,” Missandei muses.

Daenerys smirks. It certainly is. Jorah has a wonderful amount of stamina and endurance, and it has served them very, _very_ well over the past few weeks. “He’s scarred, but I like that. It tells a story.” A story of his devotion, a woven tapestry of the things he would do for her. She has traced those paths many times during the last few weeks, discovering new tales each time. The greyscale had ravaged him, but he is still beautiful in her eyes.

“And does he know a great deal of things?” Missandei asks coyly.

Daenerys smirks. “He knows many, _many_ things.” And he’s extremely talented at them all. Those moments when she’s lying supine on the bed, trembling all over, make her incoherently wonder why she was so stupid to wait this long when she could have been ravaged like _that_ years ago.

Missandei’s cheeks pink, but her eyes twinkle nevertheless. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“You’ve heard the saying about Bear Islanders having the strength of ten mainlanders: they do _everything_ ten times better than mainlanders.”

Missandei falls about giggling, and Daenerys joins her. She can’t help it. Her friend’s laughter is infectious, and she’s never been so happy.

It takes Missandei some time to sober. But when she does she reaches across to squeeze her hand. “I am happy for you, though. For both of you. You both deserve it. And you’re perfect together. Everyone can see that.”

“Not everyone.”

“They’ll come round to the idea in time. This can only be a good thing, I promise you.”

Daenerys has never put much stock in promises. They are usually hollow and as false as men. But this one she can trust. Because she _does_ trust in Jorah and in her friends. She knows they will do whatever they can to ensure everything runs smoothly.

Plus they must surely be halfway there, because The Dragon and the Bear is a popular ditty…

Missandei stands to gather some glasses and a flagon of wine. “I think we should raise a toast.”

“Now that I _can_ get behind,” says Daenerys. Missandei pours them each a glass and passes one over, remaining standing. She raises her glass.

“Here’s to our dragon queen and one of the greatest men from Westeros. May the both of you find all the happiness and peace in the world. You deserve it for the peace and prosperity you are working so hard to bring here after working so hard to get here. To you and Ser Jorah!”

“To me and Ser Jorah!” Daenerys echoes, throwing the wine back. She begins laughing as Missandei starts to splutter, less accustomed to drinking so much in one mouthful. There will be many trials still to come, but everything feels so _right_ at the moment, and she simply has to indulge in these feelings.

Missandei calms at last, retaking her seat with supine grace. All pretence of being interested in knitting is gone; she pushes her intricate work away and turns to face her fully.

“So, come on,” she says. “You need to tell me more. How did your first time come around? What happened?”

Dany leans back in her chair, shooting her friend a cheeky grin. “It was in the council room after everyone else had gone. We were just talking and he was making my heart beat so fast and he was so oblivious to it all. I knew then that I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d been letting it fester there for too long. Lady Olenna once told me to be a dragon. Dragons don’t show fear. So when we were standing at the door and as I said before, I leaned in and kissed him. Then…”

\-- --

“Jorah the Andal.”

At the sound of Grey Worm’s voice, Jorah looks away from the window.

The Master of War stands stiffly in the doorway to the White Tower. As a member of the queensguard his quarters are here along with the rest, though they’re mostly for show. He spends most of his time with Missandei.

“Torgo Nudho,” Jorah responds. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Grey Worm shakes his head. “No.” He ventures further into the room, pulling out a seat at the table.

Thankfully the common room is empty apart from the two of them. Arya and Arthur Vaith are down in Flea Bottom, Larys is on patrol with the gold cloaks, Pod is most likely somewhere with Tyrion, and Hezho is stationed outside Daenerys’ quarters. There’s little chance of them being disturbed, and he senses that Grey Worm would lose his nerve if they were. He waits patiently for the younger man to speak.

“I wanted to speak to you about earlier,” the Unsullied says at last.

Earlier. Jorah knows exactly what _that’s_ going to be about. Gods, if only he could avoid it. This isn’t his domain. Daenerys is probably better at this.

Alas, Daenerys isn’t here. He’ll have to handle this himself.

They should have been more careful. He blames himself for this. He should have been strong enough to say no to Daenerys when she came to his quarters. He’d known the risks of having her in his bed. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t allow it to happen again after it had happened the first time. All it would take was for one of them to rise too late, or for someone to discover her missing too early. His fears had been realised. He should have known better. Allowing himself to be seduced by her beauty, by the dip in her dress and the sultry way she ran her hands down his chest and insinuated herself between breeches and smallclothes was not knightly.

Now he has to face the consequences.

He crosses the room to take the seat that is his at the head of the table.

In fairness, Grey Worm looks as uncomfortable as he feels. Still, he squeezes his spear in his fist—possibly a subtle threat?—and says, “You are with the queen.”

“I am,” says Jorah.

There had been varying reactions to the revelation that Daenerys Stormborn is bedding her lord commander.

Grey Worm had said nothing at all through the entirety of the meeting, as watchful and stoic as ever. No doubt he had been taking things in in that calculating way he has, allowing the louder members like Tyrion, Varys, and Davos to send forth a flurry of questions. At least Varys had. Tyrion had wavered between delight and solemnity, friend and Hand vying for top spot in his head. Davos’ response had been more along the lines of pleasant bemusement.

“Is it true what Lord Varys says? That it will jeopardise our queen’s reign?”

“I don’t know,” Jorah says honestly.

“We swore to help her.”

“I know.”

“You might do the opposite.” Grey Worm’s tone is accusatory. “Lord Varys says the high lords won’t like it.”

“They probably won’t,” Jorah concedes. He scrubs his hand down his face. Already a weariness is settling in his bones, a tiredness that goes beyond his age. This disquiet has sat in the back of his mind for weeks, the anxiety and fear gnawing at his bones like rabid dogs on emaciated flesh, tearing him apart piece by piece. It has needled at him every day since this began, but now it’s out in the open the needle has become a full-blown strike from a blade, buried deep to the hilt in his throat.

Doesn’t this mean what he knew all along? That they were never going to work? He was foolish for indulging, for allowing himself to be swept away in Daenerys’ passion and eagerness. She is a queen, but she is still a young woman, with the impulsive fire of youth and regality. He is the older, disenchanted knight. He should have been stronger, for her sake.

There had been support, but there had been just as many misgivings. There had been none with the whispers that had surrounded her and Jon Snow. Only enthusiasm, anticipation. And why not? A king was worthy of a queen, with the blood of the noble Starks in his veins. A handsome couple indeed, and dedicated to helping people.

He can’t compete there, no matter what Daenerys tells him.

“It’s not public knowledge,” he says to Grey Worm now. “There’s still time to plan.”

“Plan what?”

“I don’t know. How to handle this in public, how to decide we _don’t_ …”

Grey Worm is silent as he mulls that over. “I suppose so. I hope you’re not offended. I have respect for you. But…”

“But you serve our queen,” Jorah says quickly. “I understand. You want what’s best for her. I hope you know I want the same.”

“I do,” Grey Worm responds. “You have always protected our queen and she likes you very much. We can all see that. No one has done more than you for her. But we have to do everything we can to make sure she’s safe.”

“I know,” Jorah says. It’s all people say to him: _protect her, protect her, protect her._ And he will, until his last breath. It’s his sworn duty, his purpose in life. Everyone who knows him knows that, from Tyrion to Arya Stark. Grey Worm knows more than anyone that he would do anything to protect her. He has been protecting her from the moment he met her, when she was naught but a frightened girl on the cusp of womanhood, with no friend in the world.

“Would you give her up if you had to?”

It’s not something he wants to contemplate, but he doesn’t hesitate, for he knows the way things have to be. “In a heartbeat. I would leave court if it meant that she would succeed.”

His instant response seems to settle something in his companion. Grey Worm’s scrunched brow smooths at once, the grim tension leeching away. He nods once, leaning his spear against the table.

Ah, he seems to have escaped any immediate threat on his life.

The gruff indignation is gone too. Grey Worm shakes his head and lays his hands flat on the carved table top.

“You are a good man, Jorah the Andal,” he says. “I know this. And I trust you when you say you will put Queen Daenerys’ best interests first.”

“That is my sole purpose, I promise you. There is no one in this world who means more to me than she does. I don’t care about what happens to me as long as she is safe and well. I understand that one day she will need to follow the wishes of the rest of the council and make a worthy marital match. I will never stand in the way of that. If our…relationship needed to end tomorrow then I would finish it. I wouldn’t cause any problems for her.”

“I believe you,” says Grey Worm. He goes quiet for a moment, evidently searching for the right words. “You are a braver man than me.”

Jorah snorts. “That’s far from the truth. There’s no braver man than you.” He remembers scoffing at Kraznys Mo Nakloz’s assessment that Unsullied did not fear death.

“All men fear death,” he’d said dismissively, all too confident in his own assessment.

But that was before he got to know the men in Daenerys’ new troops. The men who were daunted by nothing, who would do anything for their new queen without a moment’s hesitation. And Grey Worm encapsulated them all: stoic, humble, unflinching.

“I am brave in battle,” he says now. “Always. I would shame my queen if I was anything else.”

“Our queen would never think that,” says Jorah. “She is proud of every single one of you. You are her people and she is fiercely protective of anyone she considers in that group.”

Grey Worm shrugs. “We still feel that. But I’m not talking about battle bravery.”

“Then what?”

“Bravery of the heart. I am not as brave as you. When I met Missandei of Naath…”

Jorah understands then. “You were afraid of never coming back to her. Of leaving her alone.”

“It is a shameful thing for Unsullied to think these things.”

“But you’re not just Unsullied. You’re allowed to feel things. And it’s natural to feel these things where the women we care about are concerned, I promise.”

“Did you feel it on the Long Night?”

It’s not something the men talk about often. They’ve all seen war before, but never anything like that. Never something that massacred in such a horrifying way. Still, Jorah is compelled to answer.

“Every single second. But my main worry was keeping Daenerys safe. There wasn’t room to think of anything beyond that.”

“I wish I could have been there for Missandei. In the days that followed I kept thinking about what might have happened down in the crypts. I wanted her to go there to be safe but in the end it was just a ready-made grave for people to die in.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Jorah says softly.

“We _should_ have known. All of us. Death marched. They brought the dead with them. _We should have known._ ”

And of course they should have. It should have occurred to _someone_ : Tyrion, who touted himself the cleverest man alive, Jon, who had more dealings with them than anyone else; Tormund Giantsbane, who had been reared on those fears beyond the wall; Varys, who knew everything that was going to happen before it did.

“We can’t change that now,” Jorah says. “We can only remember the fallen and be grateful for the loved ones we still have.”

“And our queen is yours.”

“What?”

“Your loved one. I was there that day in Mereen.”

Truthfully, those details are a blur on the edge of his memory. The details that are burned on his brain forever are the painful ones. His voice echoing in that lofty temple, those four words he had tried so hard to contain for so long.

_I have loved you._

And her reaction. That retraction into herself like a butterfly back into its chrysalis, the words that cut like steel when she ordered him to leave, to never return.

He vaguely remembers Grey Worm moving forward, ready to square up to him, to fight him. A man he had once considered a friend.

He doesn’t know if they can ever be that again. So much has happened since then. He will never forget Grey Worm’s first words to him when they saw each other again.

_He should not be here._

There’s been no real time to speak about it since. Wars to win, a kingdom to free.

And now this. This uneasy alliance where they are brothers of the queensguard, valued advisors at Daenerys’ high table, and both with her best interests at heart. But his betrayal is a thorn between them. Jorah doubts he wields the same respect as he used to. Gone are the days when they would sit together in the barracks and he would teach Grey Worm the Common Tongue in their spare time so he could impress Missandei with his willingness to learn.

Grey Worm is the one to break the silence. “When you taught me that word…precious.”

“Aye?”

“You were thinking of Daenerys. She is your precious thing.”

“She is.” Jorah will never forget that day. He would never have breathed the truth of that to anyone, but she had been at the forefront of his mind, that small smile that was too rare these days, her fire, those conversations they seemed to have with just a look; she had filled his every sense, stolen into his dreams, and he loved her with such a fierceness that he thought his heart might burst out of his chest, present itself to her with naked yearning. The candles had sent shadows scattering across the room, and in them Jorah had seen shapes twine and dance and love; there was sacred understanding in the air, so tangible he felt as if he could reach out and pluck it from the night, and send it across the palace to Daenerys’ heart, unobtainable though it was; Grey Worm’s brow scrunched in concentration.

_“Praysush?”_

_“Preh-shus. Precious.”_

_“What does this mean?”_

And he had floundered for the words that would adequately describe just what it was. “ _It means...it means something important. Something that you treasure. Something that makes you feel such overwhelming things in your chest and in your stomach that they’re indescribable, but all you know is you want to keep feeling them. That you would do anything to keep that thing safe and happy. It can be for an object, or it can be for a person. A person can be so precious to you that nothing else in the whole world matters, not even yourself...”_

 _“Precious,”_ Grey Worm had said, testing the word on his tongue, the word heavily accented in his gruff voice, and it had sounded like a prayer, like benediction, and Jorah had recognised at once that the other man understood the gravity of that single word and all it compounded.

_Precious._

They sit there in perfect understanding once more.

“I think you are our queen’s precious thing also,” Grey Worm says at last.

Shocked, Jorah turns to look at the younger man properly. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’ll never be sure of what to say to that.

But Grey Worm doesn’t seem to need him to say anything. He fixes him with that dark, intense stare. “Missandei, she tells me these things.”

“I see.” Jorah scratches the back of his head awkwardly. He ought to have known that, really. There is no one sharper or shrewder than Missandei. She quietly observes, unnoticed. He wonders if she might already have known, before Tyrion’s discovery of a few hours prior. If she had, she hadn’t even told Grey Worm. “What _did_ she tell you?”

“That our queen looks at you as if you are her home. That she has her heart in her eyes whenever you are in the same room, for everyone to see if they wanted to look for it. I saw it today.”

“Did you?” Jorah doesn’t like to seek affirmations. He doesn’t want to seem as if he seeking his ego being stroked. He isn’t presumptuous or arrogant, nothing the way most men are. But he still has trouble believing that Daenerys feels for him the way she says she does. Not because he doubts _her_ , but he certainly doubts _himself_. He will never be enough for a queen. And the day of reckoning will fast approach now. The council knows. It is only a matter of days, _hours_ , before their relationship will be at an end.

“Yes,” says Grey Worm. “The queen looks at you like you look at her.”

“Gods,” says Jorah, a touch grumpily. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know that?”

The sourness flies right over Grey Worm’s head. “No, I don’t think so. Are you ashamed?”

“No.” Just so _tired_. Tired of the pity on people’s faces and the inevitability of his predicament. And yet it doesn’t change the facts.

“No, I’m not ashamed.” He could never be ashamed of that. Because that would mean he would be ashamed of her. And never in a million years could that ever happen.

Grey Worm continues, “Today she looked at you as if you were her whole world. I believe that you are. Missandei says it’s so, and she has never been wrong.”

“That’s something we can agree on.” Jorah heaves himself to his feet. “Would you like a drink?” He rarely indulges, for the Lord Commander of the Queensguard should always be sharp and ready for action, but after the morning he’s had he bloody needs it.

“No, thank you,” says Grey Worm. “I don’t drink.”

Jorah shrugs, and pours himself a glass. This Dornish swill isn’t to his taste—he’s a northerner, after all—but it’s better than nothing. He takes a gulp then returns to the table.

“If our queen wants you and fights for you, I will not oppose that,” Grey Worm says. “She deserves to be happy. And so do you, Jorah the Andal. You have made grave mistakes in the past, but so have we all. I was not strong enough to save Ser Barristan. I did not see that Casterly Rock was not worth taking. I cost our queen her allies.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Jorah objects.

“I should have been wiser. I should know war. I lived under the Masters for nearly all of my life. I learned how little lives mean to those in power. Everyone except Daenerys Stormborn.”

“She is truly one of a kind.”

“She is. So if our queen believes that she can be with you and it won’t affect her reign, then I will support her always. Just as long as you keep your promise to walk away if it becomes clear that it cannot work.”

“I swear it.”

More silence. Jorah takes another draught of wine before pushing it away. Even the Dothraki mare’s milk is better than this. At least it numbed the pain more quickly. He half-wishes that one of the other queensguard would enter and interrupt them. They’ll have to be briefed too and he’s not looking forward to the smirks shot his way, but it would be a distraction from Grey Worm’s quiet intensity.

At last, Grey Worm breaks the silence once more. Neither of them have ever really been talkers, preferring the silence to meaningless conversation, but no doubt this sudden revelation has sparked much disarray within their ranks. Jorah knows the other man is entitled to question as much as he’d like. He braces himself for another barrage of uncomfortable questions.

He’s surprised instead.

“We are both very lucky to love such strong women and have them love us back. It is truly a blessing.”

“It is,” Jorah agrees.

“I remember at the beginning, when I was first trying to approach Missandei, you taught me about many things. They were very, very helpful.”

“Well, that’s good.” Jorah clears his throat. This is a conversation he’d rather not revisit. He remembers the discomfort of it all too well; Grey Worm embarrassed and ashamed as he’d asked if there were _other ways_ a man might love a woman if he so desired…

He hadn’t needed to be as wise as the Crone to know that Grey Worm had been asking for himself, but he had been careful not to cause him further mortification. Who was he to judge what an Unsullied might feel? They were men just the same, regardless of what was between their legs. Tyrion cracked joke after joke about Varys but he never said a word about the Unsullied—probably because he didn’t want to be speared like a hog. Jorah wouldn’t blame anyone if they d _id_ do that. Tyrion’s mouth was too big for his body.

Still, it hadn’t been a particularly pleasant conversation. Explaining to a man who was as green as a boy the finer points of intimacy hadn’t been his idea of fun. Realistically Tyrion _would_ have been more ideal. He’s always bragging about the number of whores who have begged for his magic cock and his magic tongue.

 _I think Bear Islanders know much,_ much _more,_ Daenerys had purred one night, tracing her fingers over the raised flesh of his greyscale scars.

 _I didn’t realise you’d had Tyrion too,_ he’d responded, which had earned him a playful smack. And an admonishing nip. Which had naturally led to a kiss, because how could he resist her when she was so rumpled and beautiful, naked in his arms? And this newness, this freshness meant that they couldn’t possibly stop at kissing…

Jorah shakes his head, dispelling those images. Best not to think on _that_ just yet.

“You helped me to see that there was a way for me with Missandei,” Grey Worm continues. “That there were ways for me to show her I love her. And Missandei, she is fond of you. Despite your mistakes, you are still a good man. We are all lucky to have you on our side.”

“Thank you.” Jorah is touched by that. He would be the last person to say that he’s a good man. Daenerys chides him often enough that he should see his worth, but it’s difficult when he has the reminders of his transgressions wherever he looks. To have others affirm his worth to him...

“Just don’t hurt her, Jorah the Andal,” Grey Worm says. “If you do, I swear I will hunt you down myself.”

“If I hurt her I would let you, believe me.”

Grey Worm nods and goes quiet once more. They sit there together lost in their own silent contemplations, no doubt, Jorah thinks, about the women they love and how lucky they are to have them.

\-- --

It’s the hour of the bat when Daenerys finally escapes from the manacles of queenliness. Missandei has departed to be with her lover, and she has finally finished with the endless scrolls that Varys dumped on her desk earlier. She is determined to show him that just because she’s fallen in love with her lord commander, her commitment to the realm isn’t going to waver. She understands his uncertainty, of course. Over the last two decades and more, he has seen the realm rent apart—though some of that is by his own scheming. But if hatred brought peace for seventeen years, how long could love?

She will show them all in time. The first spoke on the wheel has been issued its first blow. It may take a while to crack in two, but it will.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she calls.

Jorah enters, clasping his hands in front. “You wanted to see me, Your Grace?”

She rolls her eyes. “Drop the formalities, Jorah.”

Something wounded flashes across his face. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we ought to maintain distance for a short while until it all settles down. That way we can’t be accused of not taking your reign seriously. I _won’t_ be accused of that. You’ve worked too hard to get here.”

His words ought to strike fear in her heart. He wants to pull away, distance himself.

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing,_ she remembers Jon had once told her. But she is not alone, not really. Jorah could never leave her so.

So she stands, draws herself to her full height. She is tiny in his presence but he shrinks before her anyway, always deferring to the queenly righteousness that makes her grow tall.

“That’s something we will _not_ be doing,” she says. “How can we hope to prove people wrong if we shy away from what we feel?”

“But your advisors are right. I’m a Mormont, but worse than that I’m a _disgraced_ Mormont. I have nothing to offer you. I’m not even a lord.”

“I thought you had love to offer me. Which I think is more important than any of that. I thought you were of the same opinion.”

“I will always love you more than anyone else in the world ever could. You _are_ my life. And that means you mean too much to me to jeopardise.”

“All right, who have you been speaking with? Was it Varys?”

Jorah sets his jaw in that frustratingly noble way of his. “No.”

“You might as well tell me because I won’t stop until I have my answer. I am a dragon, after all.”

He must know that much is true for he sighs. “It was Grey Worm.”

That does catch her by surprise. “Grey Worm?”

“Yes. He came to see me in the White Tower.”

“And what did he say?”

Jorah shrugs. “Not a lot. He didn’t have to. He shares the opinion of most of the others, that this isn’t a good idea.”

“I see. That’s interesting, because Missandei doesn’t see it as a problem at all. She thinks it’s the best choice I could have made. So I’m sure it won’t take much for her to convince Grey Worm of the same. He’d do absolutely anything for her.”

“Grey Worm has his own mind.”

“Yes, and he’s also not stupid. He’ll come round to the idea when he realises that it’s working. Which is why we will not shy away from this. How is my council supposed to see any differently if we don’t _let_ them?”

He has no answer for that. Good. It means that he’s not so far set in his stubbornness that he can’t be swayed. Daenerys throws down her pen and crosses the room to his side, pressing herself against his chest. With a sigh he capitulates, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. His armour clinks, an unyielding barrier between them, but she doesn’t relent, fitting her cheek to the underside of his throat, the only unprotected part of him. He drops a weary kiss to the crown of her head.

“Let’s escape for a while,” she says.

“What?”

“Our beach. I want to go to our beach.”

He sighs again. “Is that wise?”

“There’s nothing to worry about. No one will see us.”

“The others will be on high alert now. Varys probably has spies outside right this second.”

“And so what if he does? I’ve nothing to hide from him. I told him, if he has anything to say or ask, anything at all, he should come to me. I’d like to think I’ve proven myself a woman of my word enough over the last year that he can trust to come to me.”

“I don’t think Varys trusts anyone, apart from Tyrion, perhaps.”

“Then let’s hope Tyrion will persuade him. Regardless of what his duty of Hand might tell him, he _is_ happy for us.”

“His duty of Hand will still probably win,” Jorah points out.

“We can test that if you’d like. You heard him this morning. He wants to take you for a drink and find out all of the details. Shall I call for him, or does the walk with me sound preferable?”

She’s got him there. There’s little on earth that will make him shiver more than the thought of going out drinking with Tyrion. A drunk Tyrion runs his mouth off even more than normal, and Jorah likes his quiet moments of reflection.

He sighs, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine, we’ll go for a walk.”

Daenerys tips him a cheeky wink. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

“You are impossible sometimes.”

“But you love me anyway?”

A beat, a pause, but the answer is never in doubt. “Of course I do.”

She’s reeled him into her trap like a lamb. “And I love you. More than anything else in the world. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

That she _is_ less sure of, but in time she will make him believe it. Even if it takes a thousand years.

“Then let’s go.”

He nods and they exit the room together. She tells her Unsullied not to bother waiting any longer, for Ser Jorah will see to her safety from here. He bows and leaves them.

Over the last half year of her reign, she’s made sure to learn all of the secret passageways inside the Red Keep from Varys. Coming and going as a queen would be nigh on impossible if she had to always walk through the streets. The secret passageways are her gateways to freedom. And she has Jorah to share them with.

Her favourite passage is the one which leads to the secluded beach where Ser Davos and Tyrion landed all those years prior. Out of the way of prying eyes, they will be free to just _be_. It’s so rare that they get that outside the privacy of their own chambers. They make their way through it, Jorah holding a torch high above his head to cast the light as far as possible, and at last they emerge in the cliff side, with the cool sea breeze stinging at their faces. Daenerys tilts her head back, relishing the freshness after the stuffy mouldiness of those ancient paths.

They pick their way down to the beach, and Dany sighs as her sandals come into contact with the damp sands. The gentle swishing of the ocean as it ebbs and flows is the sweetest of all music, and she turns to glance at her lover.

“Let’s walk,” she requests, and he nods.

They set off at a steady pace. Though not big, given its secrecy, it still provides ample room for them to meander across. Their hands brush as they walk side by side, and Daenerys takes the plunge, slipping hers into his. Without hesitation his fingers wrap around hers, strong and protective. She will never grow tired of that feeling, his palm kissing hers, the callouses from swordplay and riding rough against her skin. The unyielding grip of a man who will never give up.

The stars twinkle above, silvering his features. The ocean breeze whispers around them, a friend that will keep whatever secrets pass here between them tonight. Daenerys brings them to a stop, turning to face him but keeping their hands joined. She’s never seen the point in dancing around delicate topics. Dragons always meet problems head on.

“Are you afraid?” she asks.

He stiffens. “Of what?”

“Of this being out of our control now. Of having others sitting in judgement of us.”

“No.”

His blunt answer contradicts the shadows in his eyes.

She presses on, “But you do listen to it.”

“Of course I do,” he allows. “And so should you.”

“Why? So they can make me marry someone for political reasons? I was forced to do that before. My brother sold me like a brood mare. Never again will I allow that to happen. A queen makes her own choices, and I choose you.”

“If only it was that simple.”

“Isn’t it? Jaehaerys I chose Queen Alysanne in spite of what everyone else wanted of him, and their reign was probably the best Westeros has ever seen. Aegon III chose Queen Daenaera when his advisors were all pushing different options. People thought Westeros would be destroyed, but here it is.”

“That’s different. Both of the women chosen were faultless and sweet, easy for the realm to love. They’re not going to get that with me. There are still plenty of people who remember why I ran. There are still plenty of people who think I should answer for my crimes now, or think that I should never have returned.”

“Then let them come to court to face me themselves. Let them hear _my_ thoughts on that matter.”

This is what makes Daenerys cross. Jorah has no qualms about putting his life on the line for her, has no issue doing whatever it takes to see her take the strongest position possible. He’s done it for so many years, sacrificed so many parts of himself over and over for her cause that it’s chipped away at him, left him blind to what they can do _together_.

It’s partly her own fault. She’s reduced him to this by snapping at him, taking other lovers beneath his nose, banishing him. But he has to take his own responsibility. He has to stop being so stubborn and certain that _he_ is right. He has to stop dismissing her own choices. _He_ is her choice. He should never have let her take him to bed if he isn’t willing to fight for them.

But it’s a nice night. She doesn’t want to argue with him tonight. She doesn’t want to fight a war with him when there’s so much fighting external forces ahead of them. She wants to enjoy the peace while she can. So she stretches on her tiptoes and plants a chaste kiss against his mouth.

“Let’s forget about it for tonight,” she says. “Let’s just enjoy being together.”

Jorah nods. “As you wish, Khaleesi.” He leans forward to return her kiss, lingering. She melts into him, sliding her hand up the front of his breastplate to anchor around his neck. She will never grow tired of those kisses. He is a master at work; the way he kisses her makes her feel like she is the only woman in the world, that it is his sole purpose in life to learn every part of her. No other lover could compare.

Too soon he pulls away from her. Brushing one last kiss against her forehead, he tugs on her hand, encouraging her to walk with him once more. She does so gladly, wrapping her spare hand around his wrist.

“This place gets more beautiful the more we visit it,” he says, the olive branch for her to seize.

“It does,” she agrees. “But I don’t think anything will beat the first time. That was special.”

He shoots her a sideways glance before looking down at the sand bashfully. “Aye, it was.”

“You were so handsome, with the moonlight on your face.”

“And you were more beautiful than ever. Your hair…” He trails off, but she knows the memory in his mind. The way his fingers had tangled through her hair over and over, enraptured. The way he had kissed her, with urgency, with unmasked desire, as if he thought this whole magical night couldn’t possibly be real.

“We stayed here all night,” she says. “Just talking beneath the stars.”

“Just talking?” he says huskily.

“Well, talking and kissing,” she amends with a cheeky grin. “It was sunrise before we moved. I was so tired in the council meetings the next morning that I could barely keep my eyes open.”

“And I almost fell asleep on my feet.”

They laugh together, and Daenerys pauses once more to gaze up at him.

“I love you,” she says. It’s important to keep reminding him of that. Whatever strife the coming days brings, he must remember that. They have something to fight for, and she won’t give it up. She won’t let him either. They can make this work. She believes it with all her heart. Grey Worm’s words might have troubled him, but the faithful Unsullied wouldn’t have meant anything with his cautions. Like the rest, Grey Worm will come round to seeing the sense in this. And no doubt Missandei will help her.

“What’s making you smile?”

She schools her features. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I’m just thinking about how happy I am to be here with you, that’s all. How nice it is to escape from the city and find peace with you. We deserve that.”

Jorah hums in agreement, squeezing her hand. The gentle whoosh of the tide accompanies them as they trail through the sands. The breeze teases strands of her hair, and she huffs as she tucks it behind her ear as they resume.

“Leave it,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “It looks beautiful.”

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “You would say that.”

“It’s the truth. You look beautiful no matter what. There’s no woman more beautiful.”

“I’ve heard the most beautiful women in the world are on the Summer Isles. Men will do anything to have a night with one…” she teases, watching his frown set.

“There’s no one but you,” he insists. “There never will be again. You are the only person who matters to me.”

It’s an opportunity too good to pass up. “Will you swear that always?”

“Always. You know I will, Khaleesi.”

“No matter what, you’ll fight by my side for the future I want?”

Jorah sighs. He’s caught on to her intentions now, but she doesn’t care. He needs to promise her. If he does that, he will never go back on his word. His loyalty is unwavering. The two of them against the rest of the world. So it was at the beginning of their journey, so it was at what had seemed like the end. Daenerys isn’t sure if she believes in fate or destiny, but _they_ are destined.

“I will,” Jorah says at last.

“No matter what people try to throw at us?”

“I will,” he repeats. Daenerys stops them once again, reaching up on her tiptoes to cup his face in her palms.

“Good,” she says. “Because we are each other’s, Jorah. People can say what they like and plot what they like, but it’s not going to change anything. Do you understand? _Anything_.”

“I understand,” he says, looking pained. “But gods, Daenerys, it should. I love you, never doubt that. But I want what’s best for you more.”

“ _This_ is what’s best for me. _You_ are what’s best for me. If I had lost you...” Her throat closes up, the phantom burn of tears behind her eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“You would have carried on.” Jorah brings his own hands up to her face, brushing his thumbs under her eyes. “You would have lived a good, long life and ruled the way you always have.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know that. You don’t know that. Gods, those days when I thought you wouldn’t wake…I was lost, Jorah. Do you know how that feels? I didn’t know my way forward without you by my side. Promise me, promise me you won’t leave me.”

Jorah looks slightly alarmed at her impassioned outburst. “Khaleesi—”

“ _Promise me_. I can handle almost anything. I can deal with angry lordlings and irritated advisors. But I don’t want to be without you.”

“I promise you,” he says. “Let’s put it aside now and enjoy our evening together.”

Daenerys nods, and he brushes away tears she hadn’t even realised she’s allowed to escape. He wraps his arms around he once more and she settles against him, closing her eyes as his lips brush her forehead, shielding, gentle, hers.

\-- --

It’s much later.

Daenerys lies curled up against Jorah’s side, sharing the same pillow. He’s asleep now, worn out by their passion. In repose he is free of troubles. She wishes she could take them away from his waking self too. Perhaps one day she will succeed, when all of this has settled.

For now she lets him have his peace.

Listening to his breathing, she moves her hand to his chest, laying her palm flat over his pectoral so she can feel his heartbeat against her skin, joyously steady. She does this a lot. He came so close to dying. He has the proof of it written all along his body. In the twisted, gnarled scars that remind her of the smoking ruins of Old Valyria, the greyscale that ravaged his flesh and left him with the semblance of dragon scales, majestic and striking in their twistedness. In those pale pink slashes, the raised remains of his glory on the Long Night. Beneath his ribs, over his heart, at his hip. She almost lost him. She won’t again. Varys, Tyrion, they can throw what they want at her. She will not relent.

In the coming days they will talk, make a compromise. For the sake of keeping peace, Dany will agree to keeping her relationship with Jorah a secret. In return, she’ll ask for complete transparency and trust.

Two years from now she will join the houses of Targaryen and Mormont together in marriage, never to be broken apart again.

But for now she settles herself against her lover and closes her eyes, letting the rise and fall of his chest and the feel of his warm, bare skin against her lull her into a peaceful sleep, safe in the knowledge of their love.


End file.
